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THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
OF A BACK YABD 



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THE PILGRIM PRESS ' 
BOSTON. NEW YORK- CHICAGO, 




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Copyright 1916 
Br WALTER A. DYER 



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OCT 30 1916 



THE PILGRIM PRESS 
BOSTON 



CU446151 



A cknow ledgment 

Most of the chapters in this book have 
appeared previously in magazines: " The 
Back-Yard Brotherhood" and "On Rescuing 
Patriarchs" in THE DELINEATOR; " Re- 
quiescat in Pace" in OUR DUMB ANI- 
MALS; "Seclusion versus Display" and 
"Nature near Home" in COUNTRY LIFE 
IN AMERICA; "The Coming" "February 
Mendicants," and " The Song Sparrow and 
the Rye" in THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL; 
and most of the others in THE CRAFTSMAN. 
To the publishers and editors of these maga- 
zines acknowledgment is gratefully rendered. 



Dedication 

To those who love a small rectangle of God's 
earth that is a part of home 

To those who know the joy of helping on the 
life of things that grow and bear fruit 

To those in whose hearts there is a special 
shrine set apart for flowers 

To all the wide Brotherhood of the Back 
Yard 

This slender volume is lovingly dedicated 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



CHAPTER 


page 


I 


The Back- Yard Brotherhood 


3 


II 




9 


III 


On Rescuing Patriarchs 


15 


IV 


Subduing an Ash Heap 


23 


V 


The First Corn 


31 


VI 




39 


VII 


Good Beans .... 


51 


VIII 


Morning Chapel . 


61 


IX 


Seclusion versus Display . 


69 


X 


Nature near Home 


75 


XI 




81 


XII 


A Flower Lover's Creed 


87 


XIII 


Requiescat in Pace 


95 


XIV 


Cleaning Up 


105 


XV 




113 


XVI 


The Democracy of Snow Shovel- 








119 


XVII 


February Mendicants . 


125 


XVIII 


The Song Sparrow and the Rye 


i 133 


XIX 


The Passing of Winter 


139 


XX 


Ave atque Vale 


145 


XXI 


The Departure 


151 



THE BACK-YARD 
BROTHERHOOD 




J^&: 



'K 



v^HERE are just four kinds of 
people in this world: people 
who have no back yards at all, 
people who own back yards by 
proxy, people who possess back 
yards unwillingly, and people 
who live in their back yards. 

Among the first class may 
be mentioned Eskimos, wild 
y men of Borneo, convicted crim- 
inals, and New York flat- 
dwellers. 

The second class includes 






THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

boarders and the very rich. The for- 
mer gaze out upon the landlady's 
back yard, and the latter upon the 
gardener's back yard. 

The third class consists largely of 
bridge players, business men, and 
other folk to whom the back yard is 
terra incognita or an irksome appen- 
dage. In the fourth class belong you 
and I, and the German woman the 
other side of our back hedge, who 
raises Brussels sprouts and soup 
herbs, and who calls my wife her 
"flower friend" — we and many others. 
We are the Brotherhood of the Back 
Yard, and these are the articles of our 
profession : 

To turn aside as often as we may 
from the dusty street, and leave it to 
the people who have no back yards, 
or who do not understand or love 
back yards. 

4 



OF A BACK YARD 

To spend as many hours as we may 
in this secluded and delectable spot. 

To plant and cultivate growing 
things with our own hands — trees, 
vines, shrubs, vegetables, roses, and 
all the gay crowd of old-fashioned 
flowers. 

To open here our hearts to such of 
the brotherhood as are tried and true. 

To invite to the communion canine 
and feline friends, birds who reward 
our hospitality with songs at morn 
and eventide, old people whose hearts 
have grown mellow, and children who 
have not yet forgotten the joy of 
plucking flowers. 

^R ^R ^P ^P ^F 

Life, as it appears to me, is a busy 
street and a calm back yard, and most 
of us spend too much time in the 
street. There is the buying and the 
selling, the money-getting and the 
worry, the labor that makes the heart 

5 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

grow weary or callous, the spending 
and the display, the tumult and the 
glitter, the sin and the sordidness, and 
all the falseness of external things. 

But for most of us, if we have not 
lived too long upon the street, there 
is a little back yard of the soul, that 
calls out for our care and our com- 
panionship. There, if we will, we 
may spend hours of genuine satisfac- 
tion. If we till the soil aright, there 
will spring up love and kindness and 
the warmth of human fellowship. 
And when the day's labor is done, and 
the little harvest of fruit or flowers 
is gathered, let the evening find us 
there. 



THE COMING 




^HE day we arrived' our back 
wpL yard was a forlorn sight enough. 
It was October, and the leaves 
'fjOjflitfp and grass were brown and dis- 
l/flg couraged looking. Our good 
Irish Nellie, who had come all 
the way out from the city with 
us, had never seen a real Amer- 
ican back yard before, and 
her soul expanded; she began 
throwing out crates and boxes 
and papers and other rubbish 
in reckless abandon. She had 



P- 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

never had such a large place to 
throw things into before. Later we 
explained to her, and picking up 
was simple enough, but on this first 
day Nellie's activities had not added 
to the attractiveness of the back yard. 

Such vegetation as there was 
seemed not very inspiring — an over- 
grown and brittle old pear tree, vine- 
choked lilac bushes, a couple of rank 
ailanthus trees, all manner of weeds 
and brambles, and out in the middle 
of the alleged lawn a large, funereal, 
concrete urn, in which pansies, per- 
haps, had grown. 

I began to reflect on the general 
carelessness of the human race in 
these latter days. When I was a boy 
back yards did not look like this. 
People seemed to care more for the 
growing things. There was not a 
yard along our street that had not its 
fruit trees, its grape-vines, its currant 

10 



OF A BACK YARD 

bushes, and its garden. I know of a 
number of people who have lately- 
built homes in the suburbs, and I 
know not one who has planted a fruit 
tree or a grape-vine. Perhaps it is 
because they are always considering 
the possibility of moving on in a year 
or two; if so, it is a sad commentary 
on our stability as a people and the 
depth of our love for home. 

But the Lady of the House joined 
me with shining eyes. After all, it 
was our back yard, and we had never 
had a back yard before. It was the 
outdoor room of our new home. It 
was full of possibilities, and it was 
ours. It gave us a feeling of pro- 
prietorship and importance quite new 
to us. 

I began to see a vision of waving 
corn tassels and purple grapes, of 
tall dahlias and low forget-me-nots, 
of a peach tree and a velvet lawn — 

11 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

and the concrete vase was removed to 
the cellar. I conceived a new pur- 
pose in life, and that is always worth 
while. 

"Next year," said I, "this back 
yard will be a different looking place, 
I promise you." 

Next year it was! 



12 



ON RESCUING PATRIARCHS 




\ 



HEN we first made the ac- 
quaintance of our back yard 
the outlook was disheartening 
enough. It was unmistakably a 
neglected back yard — weeds, 
weeds, and more weeds, rub- 
bish and litter, and a forlorn 
stretch of uneven sod that de- 
fied the ministrations of a lawn- 
mower and succumbed only re- 
luctantly to the onslaught of 
hoe and rake. 

It was like adopting a child 
15 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

from the slums, whose heredity was 
doubtful and whose present condition 
was obviously degraded. As to the 
heredity of our back yard, we later 
found a large portion of it to be the 
child of an ash-heap. But that is 
another story. 

My first duties were those of gen- 
eral cleaning up, and that was work 
enough. It was astonishing how 
many undesirable things had grown 
up that needed to be cut down and 
burned, and what a litter of dull- 
brown leaves one unlovely old pear 
tree could make. 

The yard's chief evidence of a past 
gentility lay in a row of tall lilac 
bushes along the fence, and I soon 
discovered that here my first great 
battle was to be fought — my Auster- 
litz or my Waterloo. 

Four or five of these lilacs in the 
middle of the noble old row were 

16 



OF A BACK YARD 

overgrown with a dense mass of 
gnarled honeysuckle — overgrown, un- 
dergrown, choked almost to death, 
and in places quite hidden. 

Now honeysuckle is a beautiful 
thing in its place, and if you are given 
to moralizing you will find a text in 
that. 

They told me that these lilacs were 
doomed; that no man could possibly 
disentangle that mass of honeysuckle 
and root out the persistent vine ; that 
lilacs and all must be cut down and 
the earth plowed up. I insisted that 
it could be done; whereat, being an 
acknowledged novice, I received the 
superior smile. 

Well, I have done it! All winter 
it took me and some part of spring, 
working at odd hours when the 
weather permitted. Every strand 
was cut, painfully unwound with blis- 
tered hands, and pulled down from 

17 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

the tops of the shrubs, and every root 
was grubbed up or hacked to death 
beneath the surface of the earth. 

And when spring was fully awake 
and every shrub bloomed — albeit 
some weakly — the pride of victory 
warmed my heart. I think I would 
rather have conquered that honey- 
suckle than have made a thousand 
dollars by foreclosing a mortgage. 
Yes — there is no doubt about it — I 
am quite sure I would. 

But that isn't the moral of the tale. 
What has filled me with wonder and 
admiration is the vigor and hopeful- 
ness of these old lilacs. When I 
pulled out the honeysuckle I discov- 
ered shoots springing up from the 
bent and groaning stock, and reach- 
ing up sturdily toward the light 
through the mass of stifling growth. 

Bowed down by oppressive influ- 
ences, smothered by circumstances 

18 



OF A BACK YARD 

over which they had no control, poor, 
deprived of human assistance, with 
no apparent hope for better days, 
how tenaciously these old Spartans 
clung to life; with what faith they 
reached upward toward the sun ; with 
what devotion they struggled to ful- 
fill their destiny. 

Noble lilacs, you are honored 
friends of mine today! I hurt you 
cruelly in my bungling efforts to help, 
but you opposed me not, neither com- 
plained, but rewarded me in due sea- 
son with the fragrant gift that it is 
your mission to bestow on man. 

Never more shall you suffer from 
neglect and lack of appreciation and 
friendship, but shall spend your lat- 
ter days in peace and fruition, the 
honorable patriarchs of our back yard. 



19 



SUBDUING AN ASH HEAP 





Y garden is like a wayward son. 
The very troubles I have had in 
bringing it up have made me 
fonder of it than of greater 
successes more easily won. At 
least I like to think so, though 
there are times — 

"First have your soil in 
fine, rich condition." That is 
the proper way for a treatise 
on gardening to begin. Then 
follow the interesting details 
of planting. It sounds quite 
23 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

simple. But just suppose your soil 
refuses to get into fine, rich condi- 
tion; what then? Perhaps the hest 
way is to go out and buy several loads 
of good top-soil before you plant a 
seed, but that isn't the way I did. I 
have been raising flowers and vege- 
tables with considerable satisfaction 
for three years, and the soil isn't in 
fine, rich condition yet. 

When we first came into possession 
of our back yard, the rear portion of 
it was grown up to weeds and bram- 
bles. I saw not the slightest chance 
of making it a part of the lawn. 

"The only thing we can do with it," 
said I, in my ignorance, "is to spade 
it up and make it into a vegetable 
garden." 

That is what we did. In fact, most 
of the waste places of the yard have 
been used for flowers or vegetables 
because they wouldn't support grass. 

24 



OF A BACK YARD 

Which is unorthodox and foolhardy, 
but I cannot say that I regret the 
net result. 

In the early spring I went out and 
thrust a fork into the ground tenta- 
tively in two or three places. Then 
I sallied forth and engaged Mr. 
Jones, a dusky pillar of the A. M. E. 
Church, to do the spading. He did 
half of it, and then sent his son 
Leander over to finish the job. They 
were underpaid, I'm sure. 

It developed that the foundations 
of my garden were prosaic coal ashes. 
Some gravel and a little soil, but 
mostly coal ashes. It dawned upon 
me then that former tenants had util- 
ized this portion of the yard for their 
ash-heap, and it must have been a pro- 
digiously extensive one, both in area 
and in depth. On nearly the whole 
of the plot there are ashes and cin- 
ders, and though I have spaded 

25 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

deeper each year, I still bring to light 
odd mementoes of a past generation 
in the form of straps, buckles, rusty 
hinges, shoes, broken china, and the 
like. 

My faith then was greater than my 
garden wisdom, and I turned under 
a load of manure and planted seeds. 
The result was not a prize garden, 
but, all things considered, it was ex- 
traordinary. Like a phoenix from the 
ashes sprang a garden of corn and 
peas and beans, and we ate thereof 
and were glad. 

Long ago I read a story by Frank 
R. Stockton, called "My Terminal 
Moraine.' ' As I remember it, the 
hero discovered that ages before a 
glacier had ended in his back yard, 
and he developed the theory that there 
must be gold somewhere in the gravel 
of the moraine. He sank a shaft, but 
found no gold. He sank another and 

26 



OF A BACK YARD 

another; also he sank his fortune in 
the enterprise. But no gold ap- 
peared. Deeper and deeper he went 
until, just as bankruptcy was about 
to force him to abandon the attempt, 
he discovered not gold, but ice ! Great 
quantities of the original glacier re- 
mained unmelted deep in the earth. 
He accordingly went into the ice- 
mining business and made a fortune. 

I have not made a fortune out of 
my terminal moraine, but in the 
course of my gardening I have gath- 
ered up four scuttlefuls of perfectly 
good coal, and that's something, at the 
present prices. 

I shall never have a prize vegetable 
garden in my back yard. I know 
that, now. But each year I clean out 
a little more rubbish, add a little more 
fertility, and build up a little more 
soil, and the task is not without its 
compensations. Last fall I sowed 

27 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

rye to turn under in the spring, and 
that will help. 

Anyway, I am gardening for 
health and pleasure, not for profit; 
and I venture to say that I get more 
fun out of my gardening than my 
rich neighbor gets out of his, for he 
hires a man to have all his fun for 
him, just as the lazy Oriental keeps 
slaves to do his turkey-trotting for 
him. And my garden isn't half bad, 
if I do say it. 

Now there is a perfectly able- 
bodied moral in this — with a number 
of useful applications to human life. 
But it is so obvious that I will simply 
offer you a head of my best anthra- 
cite-grown lettuce and let you do 
your own philosophizing on the way 
home. 



28 



THE FIRST CORN 




The First Corn 



UST as every mother deems 
her own babe a marvel, call- 
ing your attention insistently 
to his fists, his grimaces, his 
tooth, and all the commonplace 
evidences of ordinary develop- 
ment, so we watched with joy 
and wonder the growth of our 
first garden, and felt surprised 
and hurt that the outer world 
should not clamor for admit- 
tance. It was a simple, ama- 
teurish garden, with dahlias at 
31 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

one end and a wealth of dwarf nastur- 
tiums along the front. Within were 
newly set strawberry plants, string 
beans, tomatoes, lettuce, and Golden 
Bantam corn. The soil was poor, but 
by dint of much cultivating and care 
we made the garden a reasonable suc- 
cess, and Dame Nature helped us. 

I think it was the appearance of 
the young corn-blades that brought 
us the greatest joy. Down in the 
stony, ashy earth we had placed the 
seed, six in a hill, and patted them 
down with a hoe. Every morning 
before breakfast we went out to see 
what had happened in the night. 
And one night was the wonder 
wrought. I saw them first — little, 
light green spears thrusting through 
the brown earth, where dry kernels 
had been planted, and I knew that 
Hiawatha had wrestled with Mon- 
damin in the night. Then, with the 

32 



OF A BACK YARD 

early and the latter rains, came the 
blade, then the ear, then the full corn 
in the ear. And still the workaday 
world went on about us as though 
nothing had happened. 

That is the way it is with all the 
wonders of our back yard; of them 
the world neither knows nor cares. 
And yet I know that there are other 
back yards — hundreds, thousands of 
them — all over our land, where some- 
one is watching the annual miracle. 
Not all the people in the world are 
out on the street, where shop windows 
flaunt their vulgar display. Some 
there are still among the flowers, help- 
ing things to grow, and incidentally 
ministering to the welfare of their 
own souls. 

It is easy enough to become ac- 
quainted with faces on the street, but 
if you would know real folks, if you 
would make real friends, find your 

33 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

way into the little back yards wher^ 
the corn is growing and the souls of 
men and women are not hidden be- 
hind masks of artificiality or buried 
beneath the complexities of life. 
Quiet, simple souls, some of them, 
that would be unobserved on the 
street; souls that are still childlike 
enough to marvel at the sprouting of 
the corn; souls that linger under the 
apple trees because they are weary 
of the glare of the pavements; souls 
that rejoice in humble garden suc- 
cesses, because, perhaps, they have 
failed in the marts of trade ; souls that 
have learned to find peace and con- 
tentment hiding among the weeds. 

I should like to pass into such back 
yards and meet such souls. I am sure 
I would like them better than the men 
and women in the street. For now 
that I have a back yard of my own, 
where corn sprouts, where tomatoes 

34 



OF A BACK YARD 

swell and redden, where morning- 
glories bloom and fade, I think I 
could understand better those other 
souls whose joys are like unto these. 
But I have my own yard to care 
for yet a little while. My garden is 
too poor a one to be left while I go 
gadding. I must needs hoe my corn, 
and stake my tomatoes, and trim my 
hedge, and shave my lawn. Perhaps 
when it is all done, and there is noth- 
ing more to be attempted, then I shall 
have nothing to do but go preaching 
in all the back yards of our town and 
showing my neighbors how to culti- 
vate their gardens and their souls. 
Until then I can only shout a greet- 
ing over the fence and wish luck and 
joy to all the brotherhood of back 
yard gardeners. 



35 



ROSES 




AM not a rose expert; I am 
not even an experienced grower 
of roses. But I can safely claim 
to be a rose lover. 

I have a vivid mental picture 
of a back yard of long ago in 
which there was a huge bush 
of velvet Jacqueminot roses, 
higher than my head, and a still 
bigger Paul Neyron. I know 
this is not the approved way 
to grow roses; they should be 
cut back for the sake of larger 

39 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

and later blooms, but they were emi- 
nently satisfactory to us. In those 
days the Gen. Jack was to me the 
rose par excellence; I could fancy 
nothing finer. In between these two 
were a large white rose and a pink 
tea, whose names I have forgotten, 
and in other parts of the yard were 
three old-fashioned, dull-red, single 
roses. 

Since then I have always wanted 
roses, and the first spring after we 
acquired a back yard of our own, we 
set out a few choice varieties — Frau 
Karl Druschki, Killarney, Etoile de 
France, La France, Soleil d'Or, 
American Beauty, Caroline Testout, 
and Viscount Folkstone. It is only 
a little rose bed, and has not done al- 
together well. Caroline Testout died 
the first winter, and some of the 
others have had a hard struggle; but 
they have given us pleasure, and with 

40 



OF A BACK YARD 

more fertilizing and a little lime and 
continued care and cultivation, I 
think we shall succeed. 

I still love the Jack, but have come 
to believe that the Killarney, with its 
heavenly pink blossoms and perfect 
buds, is the finest rose grown, though 
the sturdy white Karl Druschki 
presses it hard. The Soleil d'Or is a 
sort of interloper, being an Austrian 
briar that must not be pruned, but 
its clusters of golden flowers add 
piquancy to the garden. 

Now if this were all I had to tell 
about roses there would be small gain 
in writing of them; but it has been 
my privilege to observe day by day a 
much larger rose garden and to make 
notes of those varieties that pleased 
me most. These notes I am preserv- 
ing against the day when I shall have 
a larger back yard and greater op- 
portunities for rose growing. Mean- 

41 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

time it has occurred to me that they 
might be of service to other amateur 
gardeners who would be planting 
roses. 

I claim nothing for this list except 
that it records a rose lover's personal 
preferences, whereas the catalogue 
lists seem to claim superior excellence 
for every variety in them. I have 
arranged them according to color, 
which the catalogues seldom do, and, 
as is customary, I have let the letters 
H. P. stand for hardy perpetual, and 
H. T. for hybrid tea. Here, then, is 
my list: 

Dark Red 

Etoile de France (H.T.). Free 
blooming, deep crimson, very hardy. 
Perhaps the best known of the dark 
reds. 

Prince C. de Rohan, or Camille de 
42 



OF A BACK YARD 

Rohan (H.P.). Similar to Etoile 
de France in color. 

Jubilee (H.P.). Very dark and 
velvety. Blooms hold their color well 
when old. 

Medium Red 

General Jacqueminot (H.P.). 
The old, unsurpassed favorite. Very 
desirable. 

Ulrich Brunner (H.P.). Brilliant 
cherry red. Very fragrant. 

Captain Hayward (H.P.). Simi- 
lar to Ulrich Brunner. 

John Keynes (H.P.). A free 
bloomer. 

Light Red 

Captain Christy (H.P.). Not 
common. 
Hugh Dickson (H.P.). A new 

rose of high quality. 

43 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 
Deep Pink 

Lady Ashtown (H.T.). Some- 
times a lighter pink, shading to 
salmon. 

Medium Pink 

La France (H.T.). A perfect 
pink. Perhaps the most popular rose 
in cultivation. Also red and white 
varieties. 

Killarney ( H.T. ) . A perfect bud, 
opening to a semi-double bloom. 
Also a white form. 

My Maryland (H.T.). Another 
beauty, with long, graceful buds. 

Mme. Caroline Testout (H.T.). 
Similar to La France. 

Mme. Gabriel Luizet (H.P.). 
Large, full blooms. 

Mrs. John Laing (H.P.). Fra- 
grant, free flowering. Fairly deep 
pink. Very sturdy. 

44 



OF A BACK YARD 

Souvenir du President Carnot 
(H.T.). Turns rather light. 

Light Pink 

Clio (H.P.). Large blooms. 
Mrs. R. G. Sharman Crawford 
(H.P.). Similar. 

i 

White 

Frau Karl Druschki (H.P.). 
One of the grandest, sturdiest roses 
grown. 

Baroness Rothschild (H.P.). 
Turns pinkish. 

Mabel Morrison (H.P.). Turns 
pinkish. 

Coppery and Salmon Shades 

Mme. Abel Chatenay (H.T.). 
Pink flushed with orange. 

Prince of Bulgaria, or Prince de 
Bulgarie (H.T.). A new rose of 
fine quality. 

45 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

Mrs. Aaron Ward (H.T.) . Long 
stems. Color varies. 

Mme. Ravary (H.T.). Beautiful 
orange tint. Not always a strong 
grower. 

Yellow 

Lady Hillingden (H.T.). Rare. 

Alfred Colorub (H.P.). More 
often red. 

Gloire Lyonnaise (H.P.). Very 
pale lemon yellow. 

Soleil d'Or (Austrian briar) . Per- 
haps the finest of the yellows except 
the climbers. 

For Large Bushes 

Paul Neyron (H.P.). Pink. 
Very hardy. Flowers are as large 
as a peony. 

Conrad F. Meyer. A rugosa hy- 
brid. Yellowish pink. Very fra- 
grant and hardy. 

46 



OF A BACK YARD 

There are literally hundreds of 
others, and I know I have omitted 
somebody's favorite, but I can rec- 
ommend this list for anyone to begin 
on who has a back yard and wants 
roses in it. 



47 



GOOD BEANS 




• if ' 



/__j# Mood bea 

^^^ = — 




y*^ 




T was the Fourth of July and 
we were eating our first string- 
less beans of the season. 
"My!" exclaimed the Lady 



f A of the House, "these beans are 



good!" 

I was inexpressibly shocked. 
It was as though Eve had 
glanced appreciatively about 
Eden and said, "This is a nice 
little garden, Adam. Try one 
of these early apples." But I 
51 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

perceive that my state of mind needs 
explanation. 

It was this way. I had been spend- 
ing my holiday in the back yard in 
preference to the crowded excursion 
train or the vulgar bathing beach. In 
the forenoon the sun poured down 
such an insistent heat that the lettuce 
leaves curled up limply and the grape- 
vine tendrils drooped. The silk was 
beginning to show on the corn where 
the ears were forming. The corn 
evidently liked the hot, dry weather, 
but I didn't. As I straightened up 
after working between the rows I 
fancied I felt a slight dizziness and I 
hastily sought a shady spot. 

As I stood there, hatless, leaning 
on my hoe, and enviously watching a 
sparrow disporting himself near my 
lawn sprinkler, it suddenly came over 
me what an extraordinary bit of crea- 
tion this back yard of mine is. 

52 



OF A BACK YARD 

There are lots of things I don't 
know about it, but I know enough to 
marvel at. In the beginning it was 
Chaos and black Night, like every- 
thing else. Then came the cooling 
and wrinkling of the earth's crust, 
and volcanic upheavals; and when 
this ages-long tumult had subsided, 
and the dry land and the sea were set 
in their proper places, my back yard 
was some fathoms below the surface 
of the deep. 

One would have thought that its 
fate was sealed, and that it could 
never hope for a higher destiny than 
that of an oyster-bed. But the great 
Craftsman had a nobler mission for it. 
Perhaps he had a divine vision of my 
lawn and garden and locust tree. 

Anyhow, one geologic day a great 
ice river, miles and miles wide, came 
creeping down from the frozen North. 
Over hill and valley it crept in its 

53 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

ponderous, irresistible flow, across 
Green Mountains and Berkshires, 
shearing off mountain tops as it came, 
and grinding them into pebbles and 
sand. 

But the weather turned warm 
again, and the huge glacier met a 
torrid wave from the south. The bat- 
tle with wind and sun was fought at 
the edge of the sea, and gradually the 
ice army was forced to retreat, leav- 
ing behind it the wreckage of war — 
huge granite boulders from Vermont, 
pieces of flint from Canada. And at 
the scene of the first great battle it 
left a heap of sand and gravel so great 
that when it melted it spread out into 
the sea. Little water courses formed 
and the sand pile was flattened and 
drained. Then the tides cut a channel 
through behind the last bulwark of 
low hills, and left Long Island and 
my back yard a dry desert of sand. 

54 



OF A BACK YARD 

Meanwhile, all over the world, trees 
and flowers and all manner of plants 
had been learning how to grow and be 
beautiful, and birds and winds and 
hairy animals scattered their seeds 
far and wide. Sand- favoring grasses 
took root, and in due time Long Is- 
land became a waving prairie. Then 
came the various soil-making proc- 
esses of growth and decay, and in a 
jiffy followed red man and white, and 
our village, and the little white house 
Wherein I dwell. 

How complete it all seems to me 
now, as though the final consumma- 
tion had been wrought for me and the 
Lady of the House, that we might 
have a small spot of green for our 
souls to grow in. Soil, seed, and sun- 
shine, all for us. Doubtless it seems 
the same to the lowly and beneficent 
toad that spends his days beneath the 
tomato vines. But I could not help 

55 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

wondering, as I stood there in the 
pleasant shade, if this were not also a 
mere transition stage on the way to 
something far more beautiful ages 
hence. 

And so, as I say, I was shocked 
when the Lady of the House lightly 
remarked, "These beans are good!" 

"Madam," said I, after an impres- 
sive pause, "the Lord made these 
beans." 

But Madam had been canning peas 
and was not in my frame of mind. 

"If it hadn't been for the man who 
perfected this strain of seed," she re- 
torted, "and if you hadn't fertilized 
that garden for three years, and if 
you hadn't planted the seed at the 
right time and the right depth, and if 
you hadn't kept out the weeds, and 
cultivated during the drought, I 
guess they would be a sorry mess." 

Madam was right. It is inspiring 
56 



OF A BACK YARD 

to realize that we have some part in 
creation, after all. To this extent, at 
least, the Doctrine of Free Will 
holds. I can leave my back yard to 
the rag-weed and burdocks, or I can 
make it to blossom as the rose. So I 
trust I am not irreverent or unduly 
prideful if I declare, "The Lord and 
I, we grew these beans." 



57 



MORNING CHAPEL 







Morning Chapel 




AM not one df those garden 
enthusiasts who arise at beauty- 
sleep time and go out to work 
feverishly with trowel and hoe 
for an hour or two before break- 
fast. For one thing, waking 
up is a long and solemn rite 
with me, not to be hurried 
through thoughtlessly. If I 
get down by the time the coffee 
percolator is bubbling I feel 
quite sufficiently virtuous. And 
though I pride myself on being 
61 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

a conscientious gardener, I take my 
garden pleasures calmly and at such 
times as circumstances grant me leis- 
ure. I do not hotly pursue joy in my 
garden: I jog along comfortably 
with it. 

But if by some lucky chance I beat 
the coffee percolator by five or ten 
minutes, I do enjoy a tour of the back 
yard while the dew is on the grass — 
a brief but unhurried tour of critical 
observation not unmixed with a sort 
of morning adoration. It seems to 
start the day right, somehow. 

In college days we were most of us 
opposed to compulsory worship on 
general principles; and yet I know 
that if a poll had been taken of the 
undergraduates, there would have 
been an overwhelming majority in 
favor of morning chapel. It was a 
traditional exercise that we would 
not have wanted to abolish if we could. 

62 



OF A BACK YARD 

Not that we felt the need so much 
of a daily religious service; morning 
chapel was rather a social observance. 
It got us together as a college ; the ties 
were knit closer; the day was started 
as it should be in such a community. 

And so now I like to foregather 
with my tomatoes and my beans, my 
Shirley poppies and my roses, before 
they and I actually buckle down to 
the day's work that is appointed to us. 

Already the shadows are shorten- 
ing and the sun is pouring his vitaliz- 
ing beams upon all the growing 
things. The robins that seem to have 
a nest high up in our ridiculous old 
pear tree are singing joyfully because 
the weather is what it is, and a kindly 
mortal has spread before them a feast 
of worms. 

There are prayers said in this morn- 
ing chapel. Here is a row of seed- 
lings praying for water; there is a 

63 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

groaning dahlia praying for a stake. 
But for the most part there is a hymn 
or two of praise and then a gay com- 
mingling in social intercourse; and if 
there is a mild undercurrent of wor- 
shipful intent, that is all the religion 
I and the garden seem to require. 

Our back yard is small ; the garden 
is lilliputian. And yet within its 
modest boundaries I can always find 
more joyful surprises in my short 
perambulation than a day in the whirl- 
ing city can offer me. Never a morn- 
ing, between frost and frost, that does 
not present some new attraction un- 
suspected or only hoped for the day 
before. The buds have broken on the 
grape-vine; or a yellow crocus is in 
bloom ; or the first tender green of the 
lettuce shows in a delicate line on the 
brown soil; or our first rose has ap- 
peared; or there are tiny pods on the 
pea-vines; or the corn is in tassel; or 

64 



OF A BACK YARD 

a tomato glows rich red ; or — but the 
the list is endless. 

Oh, it is worth while to plant and 
tend and garner! I cannot under- 
stand the man or woman with a back 
yard who is blind to these morning 
surprises, and deaf to the call of his 
bit of the soil. I cannot understand 
the heart that will deliberately close 
its doors to these free and God-given 

joys. 

I am one of those fortunate ones 
who can go to work afoot, and after 
breakfast I can prolong my morning 
chapel, in a manner, by glimpses into 
other yards along the pleasant way to 
the shop. I like to fancy that Dr. 
Ludlow is rejoicing over the full- 
blown beauty of his symmetrical 
cherry tree, or that Mrs. Saunders 
has gazed with astonished delight 
that morning upon her first pink 
peonies. I wave a mental salutation 

65 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

as I pass, and feel that we understand 
each other. 

And then in June there is the 
square white house with the super- 
gorgeous array of blue corn-flowers 
and pink roses behind it. I mean to 
get acquainted and enter that back 
yard some day. I feel that it would 
be worth while. I know that it would 
put our humble rose bed to shame, 
though I am still haunted by the con- 
viction that our Killarneys are just a 
shade the finest roses ever grown in 
the open. 

God bless you, brother backyards- 
men ! May your lettuce never fail to 
head nor your hollyhocks to bloom. 
And at your morning worship know 
that I am with you in spirit, and that 
our common text is "Consider the 
lilies." 



66 



SECLUSION VERSUS DISPLAY 



, <^f~ir~^pifip^ 




versus Lfrsplau. 



ENEATH the big maples in 
front of the house a lawn has 
but little chance; at least I 
haven't been able to do much 
with mine. Nevertheless, I 
mow it and dress it, and scratch 
grass seed into the thin spots, 
and take twice as much care of 
it as I do of the lawn back of 
the house. 

I wonder why this is. Can 
it be that, in spite of all my 
boasted independence of spirit, 
69 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

I do care for what the neighbors 
think? That I prize the fancied ap- 
proval of the chance passer-by? 

For some such reason, I suppose, 
I have planted a mock orange at one 
side of the steps and a pink weigela at 
the other, and a privet hedge along 
the sidewalk; purple and white cro- 
cuses in the grass in front of the 
piazza at one side, yellow and white 
crocuses at the other side, white 
snowdrops and blue scillse under the 
old syringas by the fence, and a row 
of daffodils and narcissi down the 
side of the house, visible from the 
street. 

For the same reason, I suppose, I 
am inordinately proud of my lilacs in 
May, the whole noble row of which 
may be seen and admired and smelled 
from the road. 

I fancy this desire for display is 
very human, and I doubt if it is very 

70 



OF A BACK YARD 

wrong. There is a marked tendency 
among garden critics to deplore the 
instinct that expresses itself in front- 
yard tulip or geranium beds and in 
flaming rows of cannas, scarlet sage, 
and coleus before the house. There 
is now in flourishing existence a gar- 
dening cult that would hide all horti- 
cultural activities behind a screen and 
even confine the garden within high 
walls or hedges. Privacy and a se- 
cluded home life are its watch-words. 

Doubtless some such propaganda 
is needed in a country where the ac- 
quiring of fortune so often out- 
strips the growth of culture and good 
taste; but it is equally possible that 
the pendulum may be swinging too 
far in that direction. I certainly do 
not wish the world to come crowding 
into my back yard, nor do I wish it to 
think me a miser with my crocus gold. 

There is a serious sociological 
71 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

principle at the bottom of all this. 
Shall Americans tend to become se- 
clusive Little Islanders, or shall the 
community be deemed greater than 
the home? 

Gardening confined entirely to the 
back yard or the enclosure takes no 
account of neighborhood improve- 
ment or the pleasure of the passer-by. 
It should be possible to maintain pri- 
vacy and homelike garden content 
without depriving the community of 
the benefit of attractive door yards 
and pleasant streets. It should be 
possible for the gardener to arrange 
his vines and shrubs and flowers in 
such a way that both ends may be 
attained, and he can at once "live in 
his house by the side of the road and 
be a friend to man." 



72 



NATURE NEAR HOME 





OST of us are a bit far-sighted 
when it comes to the enjoy- 
ment of nature. We fix our 
gaze on the distant wonder, 
overlooking the little miracle 
beneath our feet. We seek 
wild life in Canada or the 
Rockies, under the delusion that 
our own farms and gardens 
and back yards are thoroughly 
tame. We envy the oppor- 
tunities of the professional nat- 
uralist or sportsman, neglect- 
75 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

ing the adventure of an early-morn- 
ing tour of the corn field or the hardy- 
border. 

The great northern diver is a bird 
no more fascinating to observe than 
our every-day, humorous crow; the 
scarlet tanager of the nearby woods 
road is every whit as brilliant as the 
flamingo; a starling has more char- 
acter than a stork; the squirrels of 
Boston Common are as impudent and 
as graceful as those of Pike's Peak. 

To see and to comprehend the lit- 
tle dramas of nature that are enacted 
just outside our windows requires a 
mind and senses more keenly alive 
and more accurately adjusted than to 
appreciate the majesty of the caribou 
migration or the duel of elks in the 
Yellowstone. 

In spring there is the coming of 
bluebird and robin, the building of 
nests and the rearing of young; in 

76 



OF A BACK YARD 

mid-summer the pageant of blossom 
and fruit passes before our hyperme- 
tropic eyes, and our friend the toad 
sits beneath his lettuce leaf and per- 
forms his marvels unobserved; in the 
fall nature makes feverish haste to 
be beautiful before youth is gone, and 
if we will but glance up from the 
morning paper now and then we may 
be lucky enough to see the flying 
wedge of the south-bound geese; in 
winter comes the brave chickadee in 
search of food, and in the morning we 
may find the lacy track of the deer- 
mouse across the new-fallen snow. 

Sometimes, when Nature knocks at 
our doors, it is not to call us to dis- 
tant hunting grounds, but that she 
may come and lodge with us. 

Thus it is in our back yard. There 
is plenty of natural history here for 
home-loving folks with open eyes. 
The wonder of growing things — of 

77 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

bursting seed and opening flower — 
fills every nook and corner. The 
sparrow builds her improvident nest 
just above our heads. The toad ap- 
pears like a jinnee out of a bottle and 
performs conjuring tricks with his 
tongue. On a June morning there is 
a marvelous cecropia on the door 
screen, and always there is the mys- 
tery of the spider's web to contem- 
plate. Nature avoids not our humble 
corner of the earth in the working of 
her miracles. 



78 



THE RAIN 




HE Lady of the House does 
not like thunder-storms, high 
winds, or rainy days, and we 
seem to have a good many of 
all three in spite of our annual 
drought. I don't mind those 
things so much, myself, though 
I hate to see branches blown 
from the trees, and I am not 
free from the depressing effects 
of a long rainy spell. 

But there is a kind of rainy 
day that I like. It comes after 
81 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

a dry spell, when we have had plenty 
of sunshine and the garden is parched 
with thirst. 

The sun went down in a golden 
haze, and in the morning we awoke to 
hear the steady rattle of the rain on 
the piazza roof. Out in the back yard 
the garden is drinking eagerly, and 
already the corn has taken on new 
life; it seems to have grown an inch. 
The grass and the lilac leaves are 
washed a clean, glistening green ; the 
dahlia buds nod heavily in the drip- 
ping from the ailanthus tree above 
them. One of my tomato vines lies 
prostrate, perhaps from a too copious 
imbibing of the life-giving fluid. 

Then I turn to the front of the 
house, for there is the impression I 
like to receive. A lone pedestrian 
hurries up the street, his umbrella 
held at an angle against the slanting 
spears of rain. Across the street and 

82 



OF A BACK YARD 

a little way down a covered grocer's 
wagon stops and a man in rubber 
coat and boots jumps out and dashes 
around the house with a basket. The 
horse stands and nods exactly as the 
dahlia buds do. 

The rain comes down so steadily 
as to produce the effect of a fog, half 
blotting out the landscape and chang- 
ing the aspect of familiar objects. 
All the sharp angles are softened a 
little, and the motion of the rain gives 
the scene a look of unrealitv as 
though it were a moving picture. All 
the colors are changed. There is no 
blue overhead, only a dull, slaty gray 
that casts its tone over all the land- 
scape. Green, red, white, yellow, all 
are grayed as with the broad wash of 
an artist's brush. Only the brown of 
the tree trunks appears to stand out 
darker and more vividly. Our street 
seems turned into a Japanese print. 

83 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

The grocer's man comes hurrying 
out and leaps into his wagon. The 
horse starts off at a smart trot and 
the street is deserted. I peer through 
the rain at the houses opposite, but 
detect no sign of life in the windows. 
It is as though the world were asleep, 
awaiting the coming of the Prince to 
kiss it awake again. 

I alone of all the village seem to be 
alive and stirring. I am shut into a 
little world all my own. I experience 
all the joy of solitude and none of its 
pain. The witchery of the rain makes 
me as lonely as a mountain in the 
clouds and I surrender to the en- 
chantment. 



84 



A FLOWER LOVER'S CREED 




ho? 



Y friend the horticulturist hum- 
bles me continually. He is 
gracious enough when I go to 
him for advice, but when, in the 
enthusiasm of some new dis- 
covery, I undertake to impart 
information, he cools my ardor 
with an indulgent smile. 

He knows too much, this hor- 
ticulturist. He knows so much 
that I sometimes wonder if he 
has any room left for pure 
appreciation of flowers. For 
87 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

when I stand in my own little back 
yard, and gaze fondly on my sprawl- 
ing nasturtiums and my hoydenish 
morning-glories, I know in my heart 
that it is a matter of love rather than 
of knowledge. I become a rank Phil- 
istine, and don't care a jot whether I 
am conforming to the rules of gar- 
dening or not. 

Who laid down these rules, any- 
way? Was it not some garden lover 
who codified his experiences and be- 
liefs? And must I be bound by his 
code? Let's have a little free think- 
ing in this garden business, say I. 

When it comes to a choice of flow- 
ers, it is, I firmly believe, all a matter 
of taste. I will not scorn the nastur- 
tium or the morning-glory because 
they are common and easy to grow. 
Rather, I love them the better on that 
account. 

And so I have made a creed of my 
88 



OF A BACK YARD 

own, and I submit that my creed is as 
good as any other man's. Like all 
creeds, it is arbitrary and dogmatic, 
but it is mine own, and I care not 
whether anyone else may choose to 
adopt it or not, so that I be left un- 
disturbed in my garden beliefs. 

ate 4l& 4& ^If- ^fc» 

I believe in roses, because they are 
the most perfect flowers that grow. 

I believe in the crocus, the snow- 
drop, and the bluebell, because they 
are brave and usher in the garden 
vear. 

I believe in some of the tulips — 
gesneriana and picotee — but not the 
gaudy Dutch sorts that grow in round 
beds in parks. 

I believe in phlox when it is pure 
pink or white, but not the magentas. 
By the same token I believe in 
foxgloves. 

I believe in lily-of-the-valley, be- 
89 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

cause it is fragrant, and hardy, and 
loves the shade. 

I believe in corn-flowers — some- 
times. 

I believe in the perennial larkspur, 
because of the richness of its blue, but 
the annual larkspur is but a weak 
imitator. 

I believe in the race of campanulas, 
because of their exquisite form and 
waxy texture. 

I believe in the iris, though I have 
none, for it is a wonderful work of 
God. 

I believe in the homely golden- 
glow, because it blooms so sunnily in 
the fence corner. 

I believe in hollyhocks, because 
nothing looks so well against an old 
white house. 

I believe in hardy chrysanthemums, 
because they defy the autumn frosts. 

90 



OF A BACK YARD 

I believe in dahlias, because I can 
pick them with a clear conscience. 

I believe in China asters, because 
I love their colors. ( I only wish they 
would grow on Long Island as they 
do down Boston way.) 

I believe in morning glories, be- 
cause they aspire to Heaven. 

I believe in the California poppy, 
because it covers with green and gold 
the bare spots in my perennial bed. 

I believe in the lowly nasturtium, 
because it gives and asks not, from 
June to November. 

I believe in the sweet pea, because 
it is delicate in tint and in fragrance. 

I believe in pansies, because chil- 
dren love their little faces. 

I believe in the Shirley poppy, be- 
cause of its fragile grace. 

I believe in the cosmos, because it is 
the flower of Indian Summer. 

I believe in the lilac, weigela, and 

91 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

syringa, because they love old door- 
yards. 

I believe in flowers to the depth of 
my being, because they exist for 
beauty, and are perfect, complete 
things. They are generous and in- 
nocent and I can help them to grow. 
If there are no flowers in Heaven, 
I fear Eternity will find me casting 
a backward glance of regret at my 
little earthly paradise. 

* * * * 

[My mother, after she had read 
this creed, said, somewhat plaintively, 
"There are heliotrope and mignon- 
ette ; don't you believe in those?" I do ; 
and I believe also in a potted gera- 
nium in a window, for that usually 
means the loving care of somebody's 
mother — and I believe in mothers.] 



92 



REQUIESCAT IN PACE 




Requiescat in Pace 



HERE are two little graves 
in our back yard, just beyond 
the ash-bin, beneath a young 
ailanthus tree. Side by side 
sleep two whom we loved, albeit 
they loved not one another. 

Nutty, the cat, we brought 
from our former domicile in 
an old cloth satchel with slits 
cut in it for air, and he came 
not willingly. He was a hand- 
some cat, affectionate, and ex- 
tremely talkative. Also he was 
95 




THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

of the night-prowling variety, but 
this is not the place to speak of 
his sins. He was a part of our family 
and we loved him. 

There are good folk who detest 
cats, and it must be admitted that 
cats are selfish creatures. They are 
chiefly physical; their joys are those 
of the flesh ; their spiritual nature has 
not been developed to the canine 
standard. But I, for one, find it hard 
to resist the charm of the cat's soft, 
sleek grace. There is something flat- 
tering in the way pussy selects your 
lap from a roomful, curls up and 
snuggles with an excess of comfort 
and, purring, falls asleep. 

With all his selfishness, Nutty was 
faithful to his home. He was grate- 
ful for bed and board. He delighted 
our eyes with his playful antics in the 
yard. He made us feel that our com- 
pany was acceptable. He was part 

96 



OF A BACK YARD 

and parcel of our household. He 
never hurt our feelings nor spoke evil 
of us behind our backs. There are 
humans in our town of whom I could 
not say as much. 

In the late fall came Dusty Rhodes 
in a crate — an Airedale terrier puppy 
with a quizzical face and awkward 
legs. Nutty took to the kitchen, 
Where dogs were not allowed, and 
thenceforth showed plainly that his 
nose was out of joint. 

Dusty, I regret to say, was a way- 
ward child. Strict obedience he never 
learned, though not because of stu- 
pidity. He took to shaking hands 
and begging quite readily. 

But Dusty was a dog, a real dog. 
We had never owned a dog before 
because we had never owned a back 
yard before. One needs a back yard 
for a dog; a farm is better still. 

Dusty was indeed a real dog — with 
97 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

all a dog's attachment to mankind. 
It is wonderful, when you come to 
think of it, that one of the lower ani- 
mals should have so developed as to 
love man better than his own kind. 

Transcendental philosophy attrib- 
utes man's higher virtues to a soul 
apart from his brain, and rests con- 
tent. But how about a dog's higher 
virtues, many of which he possesses 
in a degree to make his master 
ashamed? Love, forgiveness, moral 
courage, loyalty, faithfulness — are 
these not of the soul? Wiser men 
than I have been unable to answer. 
As for myself I am able only to 
marvel. 

Dusty Rhodes was often a sore 
trial to us, both in sickness and in 
health, but in the few short months 
he was with us he surely found his 
way to our hearts. And when the 

98 



OF A BACK YARD 

distemper seized him, and we saw him 
suffer and waste away, with that look 
of pleading inquiry in his eyes, all 
was forgiven. In pain he died one 
night, and we buried him out in the 
back yard next day. It was not easy 
to drop the damp gravel on that poor 
shaggy little head, and we knew that 
we had lost something worth while. 
I wonder where the love and devo- 
tion went to when he breathed his 
last. It is a mystery. 

Every hour thereafter we came 
upon reminders. Here was the little 
ball, here his collar, here his old shoe, 
here, alas, the little white whip. His 
place by the easy-chair knew him no 
more, neither the rug by the dining- 
room door, where he was wont to lie, 
more or less patiently, just out of 
bounds, till his turn should come. 

Then came Nutty, the heartless 
99 



theThumble annals 

wretch, back to his own, cheerfully 
making himself at home in his old 
haunts. But the Reaper gathered 
him, too. One night he crawled off 
in evident bodily distress, and in the 
morning we found his stiffened form 
under the blackberry vines. 

There lie their bones, side by side, 
in two little graves in our back yard. 
No marble shaft bears their names. 
No elegy was composed on the de- 
ceased. The world of men passes by 
our house and knows not of our hum- 
ble tragedy. But we remember; we 
shall not forget. Always, while we 
live here, those bones shall lie undis- 
turbed. Always there will be green 
and flowering growing things all 
about. And when evening comes and 
the street is still, I can linger there 
and fancy I feel against my leg the 
soft, repeated rubbing of a little cat, 
and within my hand the moist muzzle 

100 



OF A BACK YARD 

of a little dog. Better loves and 
memories like these in a quiet back 
yard than all the world beside and 
hatred therewith. 



101 



CLEANING UP 






OU can tell a good gardener 
from a poor one by the num- 
ber of weeds visible in his gar- 
den, but I know a subtler way 
of judging. I apply my test in 
November. In the spring an 
army of gardeners marked out 
their rows and sowed their seed 
with enthusiasm. Then came the 
first crop of weeds, and a few 
weak brothers and sisters fell 
from the ranks after gathering 
a handful of spindly radishes. 
105 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

Then came more weeds, and a 
further defection. 

In July came an early drought. 
The peas dried up, the lettuce wilted, 
and even the corn looked sickly. The 
salvation of the garden was water for 
the lettuce and faithful cultivation 
for the corn, and only the Old Guard 
stood by through the heat and burden 
of the day. 

By fall only a remnant made any 
pretense at gardening. Beans and 
corn had been gathered ; the tomatoes 
took care of themselves. Only the 
faithful kept up the fight for the love 
of it; only a tried and true Gideon's 
Band remained. 

But it is after the first killing 
frosts that the true test comes. The 
corn-stalks stand brown and with- 
ered; the last ungathered tomato 
hangs shriveled upon its stem. The 
garden is a scene of desolation — a 

106 



OF A BACK YARD 

battle-field whence all have fled save 
the fallen. The dainty beauty of 
spring and the fulness of summer 
have departed. It is no place for the 
dilettante gardener ; most of the back 
yards on our street are deserted. 

But over in Neighbor Burt's yard 
I see a lonely figure poking around 
among the debris. (It was Neighbor 
Burt's Golden Bantam corn that beat 
us all. ) Now he is standing amid the 
desolation like a widow in a grave- 
yard. His loved ones are dead. 

But Neighbor Burt is no faint 
heart. He is not mourning; listen, he 
is whistling. He is pulling up his 
dead plants and vines and piling them 
neatly for the burning. Soon an aro- 
matic odor will be borne to me; 
Neighbor Burt will be burning sweet 
incense to Ceres. And I know that 
he will find something to do until the 
snow covers his garden — and then he 

107 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

will begin looking for next spring's 
seed catalogues to arrive and will be- 
gin planning what varieties of dahlia 
bulbs he will buy. 

By these tokens I know that Neigh- 
bor Burt and I are two members of 
the Brotherhood of Year-Round 
Gardeners. 

To me there is a vast deal of satis- 
faction in cleaning up. I crave order- 
liness as some folks crave excitement. 
And there is the satisfaction, too, that 
comes only from a work that is well 
done, completed, finished. 

I believe that half our restlessness 
and discontent is due to our inability 
to finish things. Life is a ceaseless 
round ; duties overlap and crowd each 
other. It is hard to get the break- 
fast dishes out of the way and the 
beds made before it is time to start 
dinner, and the average housewife 
is eternally oppressed with the haunt- 

108 



OF A BACK YARD 

ing realization of a hundred unfin- 
ished tasks. We men folks come 
home from the office or the shop with 
our minds full of things we have 
dropped in the middle, and some of 
us never finish them until some one 
folds our hands across our breast and 
says, "It is all over." 

But the man or woman who works 
out-of-doors with things that grow 
and bear fruit may taste a little of 
the heavenly joy of things accom- 
plished. For God, who is wiser than 
our other employers, has appointed 
the seasons, and has ordained that 
each year shall come to an end, 
whether we will or no. 

The fruit ripens and is gathered; 
the leaves fall and the sap runs back 
into the roots. No overweening am- 
bition, no feverish desire for more 
time, more time, can stop it. Soon 
comes winter to seal the earth in 

109 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

compulsory rest. But before it comes 
Neighbor Burt and I go forth into 
our gardens and clean up, and we 
alone of all the people on our block 
know the joy the craftsman feels 
when he puts the last fond touches 
on his work and sees that it is good. 



110 



WINTER 







"Winter 




J 



ECEMBER in our back yard 
is a cruel destroyer of illusions. 
The green draperies, with which 
nature clothed it, have worn 
out and blown away. All is 
bare and brown. Every rut and 
hollow shows in the lawn; the 
old pear-tree lifts crooked and 
decrepit branches like fingers 
knotted with pain; every place 
in the fence that needs repair 
obtrudes itself upon my guilty 
gaze; the green screen of the 
113 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

clematis has disappeared, disclosing 
the harsh outlines of a vulgar ash- 
bin. The garden has lost every little 
coquetry of leaf and flower, and has 
surrendered unconditionally to the 
drab unloveliness of middle age. The 
grace of growing things has departed 
and left the ugliness of decay. 

Then comes the snow, winter's 
white Sister of Charity, to clothe the 
naked and to cover the face of the 
dead. 

What a wonderful transformation 
our back yard undergoes during the 
first real snow-storm. All the little 
hollows and inequalities are filled, and 
a white lawn lies smoother than any 
greensward. Every harsh and awk- 
ward angle in fence and ash-bin and 
wood-pile is made smooth and round. 
English starlings, those whistling 
little brothers of the blackbird, come 
to the veiled garden in search of 

114 



OF A BACK YARD 

seeds. Even the gnarled old pear- 
tree takes on a sort of venerable 
beauty, such as soft, white hair gives 
to an old man. Bustling Boreas has 
left behind him a gentle peace. 

I hope old age is going to be like 
that. If youth is feverish and fretful, 
and if middle age is a disillusionment 
and a bore (some say it is, though I 
don't believe it) , there should come a 
time at length when the struggle is 
over and peace settles down upon the 
soul. 

Down under the snow my bulbs are 
sleeping; the rose-bushes in their win- 
ter coverings are dreaming of June. 
Already I am beginning to look for- 
ward to my crocuses and bluebells 
and snowdrops, and the first green 
leaflets on the lilacs. I hope old age 
will not be deprived of a like vision 
of springtime, with blossoms and 
green fields — somewhere. 

115 



THE DEMOCRACY OF SNOW 
SHOVELING 




w»i ■' •' -mm 



J' 



The Democracy of SnowShovelling 



WONDER what it is about 
shoveling snow that exerts such 
^kjhc. a democratizing influence on 
IftjT mankind. Perhaps it is be- 
j(X > cause only snow shovelers are 
\i0 abroad, and they are all prole- 
\cSy\ tarians. At any rate, there is 
something about the occupa- 
tion that puts snobbishness to 
flight and seems to open men's 
hearts in a cheery good-fellow- 
ship. For there is a fraternity 
of shovelers which gathers in 
119 






THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

joyous conclave along our street 
when the snow ceases to fall and it is 
time to clean the walks. 

The gas lamp in front of the house 
has just been lighted, and in its yel- 
low glow I can see that only a few 
feathery flakes are falling. I don my 
sweater and gloves and arctics and 
old hat, take my shovel, and sally 
forth. The man next door is ahead 
of me, making a sort of rhythmic 
music on the flags. 

"Quite a storm," he calls across the 
white lawn. 

As I finish the piazza and begin on 
the path to the front walk, our grocer 
passes. 

"Good exercise," he cries, and hur- 
ries on to his own. 

A taxicab labors past, and Mr. 
Smith waves a friendly greeting from 
the window. 

As I reach the sidewalk a Negro 
120 



OF A BACK YARD 

passes, bearing shovels and looking 
for a job. 

"Some fall o' snow, boss," he ejac- 
ulates, and hastens on, chuckling at 
nothing at all. 

Two boys, trudging along with 
sleds, suddenly break into the road 
in a dash after a coal wagon, whose 
driver grins on them indulgently. 

There is something about the end 
of a snow-storm, I think, that is stim- 
ulating. There is a quality in the 
clear, crisp air that elevates the 
spirits, tempting one to shout aloud 
and to laugh. And I am inclined to 
believe that its invigorating effects 
are felt to the full only by the man 
who steps forth with his shovel, call- 
ing greetings to his neighbors and 
bending his back to honest toil that 
sends the blood dancing through his 
veins and, for the moment at least, 

121 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

drives the blues and envies and mean- 
nesses out of his heart and makes 
him just one with all the other snow 
shovelers of the universe. 



122 



FEBRUARY MENDICANTS 





ONG Island has its share of 
winter birds. Every farm 
seems to have its flock of crows. 
In the oak woods there are 
chickadees and j uncos, and 
doubtless nuthatches and tree- 
sparrows and pine finches, 
though I have never observed 
them. But in our back yard 
we have only two species of 
bird visitors in winter — the 
English sparrows and the star- 
lings. 

125 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

I hesitate to try to attract the 
chickadees and nuthatches with pans 
of tepid water and a free-lunch 
counter of suet and peanuts. I am 
afraid I would succeed only in at- 
tracting hundreds of sparrows, of 
which Madam thinks we already have 
enough. I must admit that they have 
an abominable habit of building nests 
in niches at the tops of the piazza 
posts, and scattering dirty straw, 
feathers, egg-shells, and even an oc- 
casional unfledged and deceased mem- 
ber of the family, about the piazza 
floor. 

But we do throw out bits of toast 
and stale bread on the snow after 
breakfast, and for lack of more aris- 
tocratic visitors we welcome the spar- 
rows. One cannot watch them and be 
entirely oblivious to their saucy 
grace. 

The starlings may have been in 
126 



OF A BACK YARD 

league with the sparrows in Britain, 
before they came to Long Island a 
dozen years ago. At any rate, the 
two tribes seem to be able to live ami- 
cably in our town, though each would 
seem to be naturally of an aggressive 
and troublesome disposition. Most 
of our starlings apparently live in 
the spire of the Catholic church up the 
street; where the hordes of sparrows 
come from I cannot imagine. 

When we throw out the crumbs the 
sparrows appear first. In fact, they 
have come to expect this daily feast, 
and early take up strategic positions 
on the ailanthus tree, the fence, and 
the crimson blackberry canes. They 
pounce upon the morsels greedily, the 
bolder ones first. Here and there a 
mimic duel is fought over an espe- 
cially delectable crust; the more pru- 
dent spirits seize one big piece and fly 

127 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

off with it over the back hedge and 
out of sight. 

The starlings come after the spar- 
rows have sat down to meat, while 
there are still viands on the table. 
Big, fat fellows, they might easily 
drive off their smaller cousins, but for 
some reason they do not. 

People hereabouts are beginning to 
complain about the starling. They 
say he bids fair to become as much 
of a nuisance as the English sparrow. 
I suppose that is so, and that a half 
dozen full-grown birds would make 
an excellent pot-pie. But I cannot 
feel otherwise than friendly toward 
my valiant little visitor. In Febru- 
ary, when all the songsters have 
flown, and every other feathered 
friend except the sparrow has 
deserted our back yard, then comes 
John Starling, short-tailed, big- 
billed, plump, and happy, and sits 

128 



OF A BACK YARD 

and preens his feathers on the clem- 
atis trellis within full view of the 
kitchen window. He's a handsome 
vagabond, in his doublet and hose of 
glossy black velvet, and I like him. 

I regret to say that even the star- 
ling finds it too cold to sing in mid- 
winter, though he and the other mem- 
bers of his lodge up in the steeple are 
voluble enough in their chirruping 
debates and discussions. I wish we 
might hear all winter that cheery., 
clear whistle with which he seems to 
amuse himself in the autumn and the 
spring. 

Ah well, they are brave little crea- 
tures, our birds. How they must suf- 
fer during some of our gales and 
snow-storms! But there they are 
again, next morning, as pert and 
chipper as ever, looking for alms with 
impudent, bright eyes. 

Friendly little sparrows, you have 

129 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

been faithful to us all through the 
winter, and we will not question your 
motives too searchingly. And in the 
spring, when the gaily dressed lords 
and ladies and opera singers of bird- 
dom arrive, we will not forget you. 
We are plain folk ourselves, and in 
our back yard we are no respecters of 
persons. 



130 



THE SONG SPARROW AND 
THE RYE 











The Song Sparrov^ and iheRye 



V 



"1HE last song we hear in the fall 
|* and the first in the spring is that 
of the song-sparrow. The robin 
is our happiest chorister, and 
the meadow-lark and oriole 
the most gladly welcomed, but 
the song-sparrow is the most 
faithful. 

On a cold, raw morning in 
early March I heard him — long 
before the lilac buds had begun 
to swell or the grass to offer 
the least hint of green. The 
133 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

snow had hardly disappeared from 
the corners of the yard, and the land 
presented the towsled, unlovely ap- 
pearance of a prematurely awakened 
earth. 

But the song-sparrow knew that 
April was on the way. In his South- 
ern home (he could not have gone 
far) some soft breeze had told him 
that winter was over and ended, and 
with no fuss or tarrying he came 
winging straight back to us, a di- 
minutive embodiment of faith. 

What a brave song of optimism it 
was! Perched on a limb of the leaf- 
less pear-tree he sang like an angel, 
fairly convincing us that the weather 
was growing warmer. The liquid 
melody rolled out like the loosened 
waters of a woodland brook. He sang 
and carolled of the leaves and the 
apple blossoms that he already saw 

134 



OF A BACK YARD 

in his prophetic vision. His voice 
vibrated with the rapture of the seer. 

Brave little warbler! You teach 
us all a lesson. If we had a little of 
your buoyant faith, good times would 
always be upon us. 

In a less audible manner, the rye I 
planted in the garden as a cover crop 
is announcing the spring every bit 
as confidently. Indeed, it has always 
been spring with the rye under the 
snow. Even the parsley succumbed 
to the frosts at Christmas, and the 
leaves fell at length from the honey- 
suckle vine, but the rye remained 
green and lush till the snow covered 
it. 

Then, when the early thaws came, 
and the windy Month of Mud, the rye 
unfolded its blades in the first warm 
sunbeams as though it had only 
nodded in its chair, and it will have 

135 



THElHUMBLE ANNALS 

mm 

grown another inch before the cro- 
cuses are in flower. 

The sturdy courage of the song- 
sparrow and the rye lends the bright 
touch of hope to our sodden March. 



136 



THE PASSING OF WINTER 





ARCH is a winter month with 
us, cold, raw, chilly, and often 
snowy, but it succumbs at length 
to April's smiles. 

Then something begins to 
breathe a little in our back yard ; 
Nature is stirring in her sleep. 
There is a prescient hush over 
the land, a hint of expectancy 
in the south wind. 

The rye is already awake 
and growing; the lilac buds 
are swelling; the path to the 

139 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

back door is drying out; the song- 
sparrow is back; there is warmth in 
the sunshine now, and one little patch 
of snow lingers in the corner of the 
yard, like a lady's handkerchief in a 
deserted ballroom, as Blackmore puts 
it in "Lorna Doone." 

"For, lo, the winter is past, the rain 
is over and gone; the flowers appear 
on the earth ; the time of the singing 
of birds is come, and the voice of the 
turtle is heard in our land." 

The Lady of the House wearies of 
the cold weather sooner than I do, but 
there is one thing I do become heart- 
ily tired of, and that is the sight of 
ailanthus trees in their winter naked- 
ness. Mostf trees are beautiful in 
winter, particularly oak and birch and 
beech, with their dainty arabesques 
of branch and twig against the sky; 
but not so the ailanthus. It sheds 
all its twigs in the fall, and stands 

140 



OF A BACK YARD 

bare and utterly lacking in grace. 
At this moment I do not think of an 
uglier thing in nature than a leafless 
ailanthus — and the younger it is, the 
uglier. There are certain crooked- 
nesses about the old trees that may 
pass for design, but the young ones 
stick bald, knobby spikes into the air 
with utter shamelessness. 

I am glad when green buds appear 
on the ailanthus trees, for I know 
that their spring clothing will soon 
be put on, and they will be at least 
decent if not beautiful. And I know 
I shall relent toward them later, as 
I always do, for the shade they 
furnish in burning July. 

All of the signs of spring appear 
in their appointed order, and one 
morning, out on the front lawn, I 
detect bits of lavender and gold peep- 
ing through green jackets, and a day 

141 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

or two later come the first jolly 
flowers of the year! 

Oh, the crocus is a brave young lass, 

Dressed in a yellow bonnet; 
She smiles on all the folks that pass. 

(The crocus is a brave young lass.) 
She pokes her head up through the grass, 

While yet the frost is on it. — 
The crocus is a brave young lass, 

Dressed in a yellow bonnet. 



142 



AVE ATQUE VALE 






.LAS, it is a world of change. 
Dusty and Nutty have de- 
parted to the Happy Hunting 
Grounds, and Sandy, the irre- 
pressible terrier, reigns in their 
stead. Warm-hearted Irish 
Nellie went away to be married, 
and there were tears on both 
sides. Now we have begun 
talking of going up to the farm 
to live. 

We have been longing for 
it, the wife and I. There is 
145 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

a broader outlook there, mountains, 
woods, and fertile acres that are our 
own. There is the growing orchard, 
a fairy-land in May, and there is 
mountain laurel among our pines. 
There will be bigger opportunities 
for us there than in this restricted 
space. 

Ah, but it will sadden us to leave. 
We shall miss the pretty white house 
with its six Doric pillars in front. 
We shall miss the back yard where 
we wrestled with Apollyon, subdued 
the burdocks, and raised corn and 
roses. I shall never eat of the fruit 
of my vine; my roses will bloom for 
those who come after. Sic vita. I 
only pray that they may fall into 
loving hands. 

Shall we be here to see another 
budding of the lilacs, another sowing 
of the seed? I know not. I only 
know that the time is coming when 

146 



OFp BACK YARD 

we must say farewell, little home. 
Mayhap some of the love that has 
dwelt here will cling 'round thee still, 
to gladden other hearts in years to 
come. 



147 



THE DEPARTURE 




HE sun has just come out after 
two days of gloomy weather. 
Last week we got four loads 
of well-cured hay safely in the 
barn, and to-morrow, weather 
permitting, the mowing-ma- 
chine will be clattering again. 

I am sitting in the open win- 
dow of my new workroom 
(Madam abominates the word 
study), and my eyes wander 
out over our terraced lawn, 
past an old apple-tree whose 

151 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

fruit is just beginning to show a 
touch of color, across the brook and 
its bit of swamp where blue-flag 
lately bloomed, to a strip of our cul- 
tivated young orchard, the sandy 
road, and the trees and hills beyond. 
A robin hops along the clipped grass 
and a chipping sparrow is singing 
somewhere near. Madam, I think, is 
making butter. 

It is good to be here on the farm; 
it is an old dream realized at last. 
But back in the minds of both of us 
a keen regret still lingers — the love 
of a white house on a shady village 
street, with a little, wayward back 
yard behind it, that lately we called 
home. 

Perhaps not all people are as senti- 
mental as we are. Perhaps not every- 
one will understand when I say that 
we cannot speak of that dear spot 
without a moistening of the eye and 

152 



OF A BACK YARD 

a tightening of the throat. It was 
only a rented place, but our lives took 
root there, and when we left it the 
roots proved to be as tenacious as 
those of an old burdock. A good 
deal of the devotion of two lives had 
gone into making it as beautiful and 
as homelike as we could. 

I have just been reading over these 
humble annals, set down at inter- 
vals during the past four or five years, 
and they have brought it all vividly 
back to me, with all of the sorrow of 
parting. 

I did not know that we would come 
to care so much. I did not know that 
we had made so many friends to re- 
gret our departure. I did not know 
how much it all meant to me — the 
familiar scenes of our village — the 
cheery "good-morning" at the street 
corner — the rooms wherein we 
worked and worried, lived and 

153 



THE HUMBLE ANNALS 

dreamed, and tasted the joys of con- 
tentment — the back yard that was 
our own little corner of God's out- 
of-doors. 

We do not like to think of those 
last days of confusion. It was like 
hurrying through a funeral ceremony 
to be about new business. But we 
shall never forget the day the train 
carried us away from it all, with even 
our little dog Sandy left behind. And 
I know that we shall forever remain 
loyal to the home that was. 

I have called them humble annals, 
and as I read them over I wonder if 
they are worth printing at all. There 
is nothing here of high adventure, I 
know, nothing of great accomplish- 
ment, nothing that tells of feverish 
passion or stirring action. But most 
of us lead humble, quiet lives, after 
all, and most of us, I believe, have 
felt the depth of that emotion which 

154 



OF A BACK YARD 

centers in the home. It is, indeed, 
one of the big, human things we have 
to be thankful for. 

And so, without apology or justi- 
fication, I close this little book, know- 
ing that there will be some whose 
hearts will answer in a language that 
we both can understand. 



THE END 



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liljl 

iliiiillii 

I-!!'!- 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 






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